


still those hands, soften that mouth

by justrunamok



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrunamok/pseuds/justrunamok
Summary: There were lines he had promised to never cross.
Relationships: Horacio Carrillo/Reader, Horacio Carrillo/You
Comments: 11
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gunning for my first multi-chap but honestly, we'll see how it goes.

You hated the fights.

Horacio was a defensive man, it was only to be expected, what with his line of work. The trait meant his team was always protected from whatever the upper brass had to say, Horacio would never let them be slighted, not without fault.

But the defensiveness extended to his relationships, the precious few he had, at least. It took only the tiniest insinuation, the breathiest sigh for Horacio to feel the need to justify himself, to quickly shift the blame. Petty disagreements that could have easily been tempered by a discussion rapidly morphed into yelling matches that left you alone in the bedroom, reeling at how quickly the fire had blazed.

* * *

You were trying so hard.

Horacio would come home late, the weight of the world so heavy on his shoulders, and you would do everything in your power to lighten the burden. You realized early on that pushing Horacio would never end well, the man was a fighter through and through, the only way to get him to open up would be to wait and hope he did it himself.

So you never asked the questions simmering in your mind, opting to keep the conversation light and open, your touches soft and undemanding, wanting so badly to ease the tense lines of his body. You would crawl under the covers and curl around him, your cheek against his chest, the soft thuds of his heart in your ear. He would leave by dawn, with a kiss on your forehead and a whispered _I love you._ And the cycle would repeat.

But there were days when you needed to _help_ , you were driving yourself crazy trying to stay quiet. You loved him and it pained you to see him so crushed, so defeated by the machinations of the narcos and the government who seemed to be playing for the wrong team. In the warmth of your bedroom, you would ask,”Would you like to tell me about your day, _mi amor_?” Praying to the gods above that his arms would not stiffen and his breathing remained even.

The answer was always the same, “No, baby. Not today.” And normally, you would stop there, gritting your teeth with the effort of holding yourself back. You would bury your nose in his neck, nearly at tears with the need to just take some of his pain away.

You had careened off-script tonight, you had pushed him. And he had pushed back.

Oh, how he pushed back.

* * *

Laying the flat of your palms firmly against the planes of his chest, you whispered,“Please, Horacio, I want to help you.” The words flew out of your mouth almost as you thought of them.

The strips of moonlight seeping through the blinds had glanced of the sharp edges of his face, allowing you to see how his jaw clenched, eyes burning with warning. “No.” The singular sound dropped heavily in your bedroom, cold and unrelenting.

Sitting up, you angled your body towards him, your hands rising to let your thumbs draw little circles over his shoulders. _Try again_ , you thought, desperate with your worry for him. “ _Mi amor_ , you can’t keep it locked away like this. You come home to me and I can’t bear the look on your face,” Invested as you were in drawing the truth out of him, you didn’t notice how his face grew hard. “It hurts me to see you like this, I want to help-“

Cutting you off, he replied to your pleas with an anger that shook you, ”You knew exactly what you signed up for when we started this, you cannot blame me for whatever _hurt_ you feel.” Twisting out from under your touch, he turned away and sat up, leaving you facing his back.

There was a chill in you that wasn’t a result of the night breeze, it seeped into your bones and crept into the cavity of your chest. Fuck, you hated this, how he never looked at you when you talked, the almost religious way he kept you at arm’s length. Most of all, you detested how he took your words and twisted them into something unrecognizable, something cruel.

"Don't do that. That was not what I meant and you know it," Reaching forward, you braced your palm against the warm skin of his back, only for him to flinch away like he had been burnt. "Horacio, please, I love you but I cannot see you suffer alone like this any longer."

"I am not asking you to." Keeping his gaze resolutely away from you, his derisive words stung you more than you would ever admit. "You act like I asked for this, that I ordered you to wait on my every whim like some mindless servant." 

The air in your lungs left you in a broken gasp, heat flooding your cheeks. _What was he saying?_

"Stop it, d-don't talk to me like that." You wished your voice wasn't so soft, that it didn't mirror how fearful you felt of what this conversation was turning into.

Scoffing humourlessly, he replied tauntingly, "Stop what? Is it not the truth? You walk around my home, fussing with everything you set your eyes on. When I return, you flutter about, so eager to please me."

Your chest ached, you couldn't breathe. 

"Does it make you proud, _mi amor?_ To be so pathetically invested in my wellbeing that you lose yourself?" Hearing the endearment among such poisonous words was like a slap to the face, they landed like bruises on your skin. "You chose this life, either you live with it or leave it behind."

Your emotions were so intertwined at this point, you couldn't tell them apart. It was like he had put a vice around you and tightened it. Was he telling you to go? You didn't understand what he wanted. Why was he doing this?

Turning as he stood, Horacio looked down at your frozen form, a cruel smirk on his lips. 

"What, darling? Are you only just realizing how sad this looks, to have shaken off one period of servitude just to have willingly fallen into another?" he sneered, taking the vice and pressing it shut.

There was a black, ugly cruelty in his words that horrified you- Horacio had never said anything like this to you- he knew your story, how it had left scars on your psyche. To use it against you like this was a violation of your trust in him, a perversion of your faith in his love. 

Your limbs were like lead as you scrambled off the bed, suddenly eager to put some distance between the man you had been so desperate to touch earlier. Horacio's silhouette made blurry by your tears, you stumbled backwards numbly, almost tripping over the corner of the carpet. Reaching blindly for the door to the bathroom, you all but hurled yourself inside, locking it behind you as you fumbled for the shower knob. You huddled under the onslaught of the blisteringly hot water, needing to feel warm as you tried to think clearly past the sobs wracking your frame.

Only when your fingers had pruned and feeling returned to your toes, did you deign to finally turn the water off. Rising to your feet, you felt like a newborn foal, unsteady and bewildered as you blearily noted your sopping, wet nightclothes.

Padding slowly to the door, a sob burned the back of your throat when you opened the door and realized you were alone again. Horacio’s to-go bag was missing from its place by the door, he wasn't coming back tonight. Not even making it to the bed, you curled up against the door and cried.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there's going to be scenes depicting abuse and general violence so please don't read ahead if you're uncomfortable
> 
> This chapter is going to give you some backstory and a brief glimpse into Horacio's perspective so it's perfectly alright if you wanna skip this.

Someone had poured concrete over you, you swore it, there was no other plausible explanation for the way your joints felt so heavy, so rigid. Maybe it was Horacio, coming back during your blind haze, dousing you with his spite and the contempt that had saturated his words. Hell, it might have even been Papa, rising from the grave just to torture you, the way he did for so long.

* * *

You had never told anyone- who was there to tell- how much you despised the kitchen. Small enough to make the presence of two people nearly unbearable, with its’ swamp green cupboards and sticky countertops. The stove and fridge were the only things that worked, everything else was either damaged or sputtering for life. The rickety table that had come with the house was pushed up against the wall, with two chairs that were just as old, if not older.

Funny how much time you spent in there.

The table wasn’t meant to withhold such force, you thought blankly as Papa slammed his mug of beer down next to his dinner, glaring fiercely as he thundered, “The fuck do you think you’re going to end up? College?”

A small, broken, foolish voice in you whispered _yes, yes, anything, anywhere away from you_.

That voice had always been so quiet. Yours was louder, smothering it in your fear.

Spittle flying as his veins looked fit to burst, Papa screamed hoarsely from across the table,”Little bitch, you wouldn’t survive a day out there! Look at your scrawny ass, you ain’t going nowhere. The fuck you still dreaming about for?” The chair screeched against the floor as he hauled himself up, lumbering over to you, mug in hand.

His beer was always in hand.

_He’s coming- fuck, you stupid girl- stay small, he’ll be nice if you’re small._

Never once daring to look up at him, you watched Papa’s heavy feet get closer until they were right beside you. _Stay small_. The mug came into your line of vision, hooking firmly under your chin, forcing you to tilt back and look.

Papa’s face was soft now, almost sweet, the flush that bloomed at his neck being the only reminder of his previous words.

“ _Mija_ , I love you. I know you better than you know yourself. You’d never make it out there, you’re just not good enough,” His free hand came up to rest on the side of your face, his palm warm against your jaw.”You’ll only hurt yourself and I don’t want that for you, baby girl.”

He was right. You were a fool to even ask about it, Papa had always told you the truth.

Thick glass pressed up into the soft skin above your throat as Papa leaned in closer, a jarringly familiar shadow falling over his face.

“You say another word about getting out, _mija_ , and I will hurt you _so_ bad.” The mug was digging in to your throat now, the beer slopping over Papa’s hand and splashing onto your lap. “You’re always so stupid, asking all these fucking questions. Can I go there, Papa? Can I do this, Papa? Your place is here with me. I’ll take care of you. Do you understand?”

The cold liquid spreading through the material of your jeans distracted you, just for a second.

A second too long.

_Stupid girl._

The mug was gone from under your chin, your face snapping down in surprise before the glass crashed into your cheek. The impact sent the left side of your body into the wall, the plaster unforgiving against your head . There was a tinny sound in your left ear, that entire side of your face was throbbing, similar to the pain in your right cheekbone that had suffered the brunt of Papa’s mug.

_Stay small._

He was all puce again, the blood rushing under his skin as he roared, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND, BITCH?”

You knew better than to hesitate a second time.

“Yes, Papa. I’m sorry.” You mumbled, the movement of your facial muscles doing nothing to lessen the pain.

“You see this, baby? This is what you do, make me hurt you when I don’t wanna. All I’m asking is that you stay here and take care of the house,” Papa sighed, stepping back from where you had curled up against the wall, his fury leaving as quickly as it had come. “I know you ain’t got much in that head of yours, but it ain’t that hard. Do what I say and don’t ask all those fucking questions, _mija_ , how many times do I gotta tell you?”

* * *

Your fingers danced over the phantom pain in your face, tenderly brushing over your skin as if the bruises still painted it black and blue. Papa rarely ever hit you, it was only when you started getting antsy about moving out, going to college like everyone else. You had been so very desperate to escape, to get a degree and become a teacher, there was nothing else that you wanted more than to be able to live your own life.

Papa had been very insistent that you stayed at home, only letting you out for school and only school. In a way, class had been your temporary escape for half the day, the teachers and the books were an opportunity to forget about your father and do something for yourself. But it was only a dream, a mirage of sorts, disappearing the moment the bell rang.

You had always been a dreamer, if nothing else.

Then the crash happened.

You were home, as usual, when it happened. The coroners told you that Papa had been high as a kite and wouldn't have seen the truck anyway. 

As you stood silently over his grave, you remembered how your aunties clucked around you, fussing over their orphaned niece. There was pity in their eyes when you averted your gaze, refusing to look at their faces. They had assumed that you hadn’t wanted them to see your grief at Papa’s death but they were wrong. You were terrified of them seeing you clearly, you kept your eyes downcast because there was an emotion there that you had to keep secret.

_Relief._

Life was good for you after that, your army of aunties folding you into their care seamlessly. They treated you wonderfully, always so adoring of how you knew your way around the kitchen, blessing your father’s soul for how well he had raised his daughter. You never went long without being told how _perfect_ you were, albeit a tad quiet, always so responsible and composed.

You shuddered violently against the bathroom door as you thought of how much you hated those praises, almost as much as you hated that kitchen with its’ disgusting green drawers and heavy mugs.

And now here you were, slumped on the floor, thinking of how Horacio’s words held a sliver of truth, maybe even more.

A rush of hot, white anger rolled through you. _No_ , how dare he equate the love you had so painstakingly built together to the misery of your childhood.

Fuck that and fuck Horacio for even insinuating it.

* * *

Horacio couldn’t sleep, it had been hours since he entered the motel room, laying in the silence, staring up at the lines on the ceiling, warped with years of disrepair.

The bed was lumpy and a sour stench wafted in the air, unpleasant and cloying. He remained on it anyways, bitterly thinking of the soft comfort he had left behind, of the soft hands he had pushed away.

As the sky outside the smudged window tinted orange with dawn, Horacio forced himself to get up and shuffle into the toilet, the lack of sleep an itch behind his eyes. He cleaned up and changed into his uniform mindlessly, the routine needing no effort. He was used to it, after years of working like he did, routines were natural.

That was partly why Horacio had been so amused when the morning after the two of you had spent your first night at his place, he caught you watching him dress for the day, your eyes hooded with sleep as you unashamedly stared at how he tucked his shirt into his trousers. When he teased you about it, he remembered the easy smile on your face as you padded over to him, tucking your head into his chest.

_You hurt her._

Fuck- of course he did- he hurt you so bad last night, guilt bubbling to the surface as the image of your face fissuring with pain took root in his mind. He remembered how you softly you had touched him, the light weight of your palm on his back before he had turned and spat the words that had you flinching away from him.

Horacio blinked rapidly as he tried to force that memory out, striding out of the room as the remorse that had burrowed in his chest began to ache.

After he had pulled into the station’s parking lot, Horacio leaned back, trying to quell how badly he needed to go to you and apologize. He was being selfish, an apology wasn’t going to cut it this time, not after all those things he said. God, you must have felt so fucking broken.

The sentences kept replaying themselves in his head all day, reminding him of how he had brought up your father, how his tongue had curled spitefully as he called you _mi amor._ Any officers unfortunate enough to cross him received their own tongue-lashing, sending them scurrying back to their desks.

He had to make this right once he got home, you deserved that at least. Horacio dragged a hand over his face as he hunched over his desk, a dark whisper in his head taunting him.

_She’s not going to be there, fool._

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I do very much live for your kudos or (holy shit yes please) your comments. Thanks for taking the time to read this, stay safe.


End file.
